


jaws of oblivion

by lesbianauriel



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Elder Scrolls, Badass Gertrude Robinson, Bittersweet Ending, Fairytale elements, Gen, M/M, Medium Burn, Sort Of, featuring various avatars as the counts, gross misuse of tes lore, jon as the hero of kvatch, martin as martin septim, raymond fielding is martin's dad in this but it's mostly just for the Plot, spoilers for tes iv: oblivion, vaguely mentioned past web!martin, you don't have to have played oblivion to read this but it helps!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25534006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianauriel/pseuds/lesbianauriel
Summary: Emperor Raymond Septim is dead. His only surviving son, and the last line of defense for the Cyrodilic Empire, is a bard in the city of Kvatch. Mehrunes Dagon, Daedric God of Destruction, encroaches on Tamriel's soil.It falls to an escaped prisoner named Jonathan Sims to find and protect Emperor's last heir.The Emperor is dead - long live Emperor Martin!
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 23





	1. PROLOGUE

Once upon a time, in a land called Dawn's Beauty, in the country of Cyrod, there was a woman named Alessia.

Alessia was born a slave, serving a Heartland Elf master. The Heartland Elves could summon forth vast armies of Daedra, which they used to keep Alessia and her kin enslaved and beaten. Alessia prayed to the Dragon God of Time, Akatosh, who bestowed her with a gift - a drop of his blood, in the form of a large, perfect ruby. This blood fueled the Dragonfires, which sealed the realm of Oblivion away, so that Daedra could only be brought into the mortal realm for minutes, at most, before they crumbled away into dust. Alessia waged war with the Heartland Elves, and before long, she was made into the First Empress of the Human Empire of Cyrod.

The Blood of Akatosh flowed through her very veins, rendering her Holy. The drop of blood Akatosh gifted her was made into the Amulet of Kings, and so long as her descendants wore the Amulet, the Dragonfires would burn, and Oblivion's realms would be sealed away. Only those with Alessia's blood could wear the Amulet -- for all others, it simply slipped from their necks.

When she and her descendants died, their souls were absorbed by the Amulet, and there they would remain until the last of the Dragon's Blood shattered the Amulet, releasing them.

Once upon a time, thousands of years later, Emperor Raymond Septim would push the Amulet of Kings into the hands of a prisoner whose name will be forgotten by history, and gasp out with his last breath to find his last living son -- the last of the Dragon's Blood.

Once upon a time, a bard named Martin strummed his lute as he walked along the streets of Kvatch, discontent with his life, and ignorant of the role he was to play in the coming crisis.

Once upon a time, a spellsword named Jonathan Sims emerged from the sewers of the Imperial City Prison, clutching a blood-red amulet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooo boy i hope y'all ready for a ride.
> 
> as it stands, i'm planning for this fic to have around eighteen to twenty chapters not counting the prologue, two of which are already written. after today, i'll update the fic on saturdays !!
> 
> i hope you enjoy !!


	2. Deliver the Amulet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's safe to say that Jonathan Sims was having a very strange day.

Dawn broke over the mountains of Cyrodiil, bathing the landscape in a warm, golden light. On the outskirts of the Imperial City, a man stood weakly on the shore of Lake Rumare, blinking against the light as he saw the sun for the first time in months. He wore iron armor that dug into his skin, his hair was long and matted, and in his hand he held an amulet with a large, blood-red jewel in its center. It was the Amulet of Kings, only able to be worn by heirs of the Septim bloodline, and the man was an unremarkable prisoner, little more than a victim of chance. His name, though it would be forgotten by history, was Jonathan Sims, and he was the first person to escape the Imperial City Prison in over forty years. Ten minutes ago, Emperor Raymond Fielding Septim, First of His Name, died in his arms after begging him to find his last living son and "close shut the jaws of Oblivion.

It was safe to say that he was having a very strange day.

The very first thing Jonathan Sims did upon escaping the Imperial City Prison through the sewers was to strip off his rusted armor, hide the Amulet of Kings beneath it, and dive into Lake Rumare.

The water was cool, refreshing against his skin, and he spent a good portion of the hour scrubbing off the Emperor’s blood off his skin, along with the dirt and grime that came from spending any extended amount of time in prison. Then, he did his best to scrape off at least _some_ of the rust on the ill-fitting iron armor he scoured from the Imperial Subterrane. Then, he scrubbed out his ‘clothes’, wringing out the cloth sacks and leaving them to dry on the small, abandoned docking ramp extending roughly two meters into the lake. Once they were sufficiently not soaking, he pulled them back on, pulled his hair back into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, strapped himself back into the old armor, lifted the longsword Captain Georgina had gifted him, and began on the path to Chorrol. All told, it was about mid-day when he left, keeping the Amulet in a small pouch (he’d taken it from a goblin corpse, back in the sewers,) dangling from the belt of the armor.

He made his way along the towering, ivory walls of the Imperial City, savoring the fresh air as he crossed the bridge connecting the city to the mainland, listening as the muffled sounds of the city turned into the lively sounds of the Great Forest. Chorrol, where the largest of the Emperor’s guards had directed him, wasn’t far, only about four hours away on foot, and the path was largely safe, patrolled by legion officers. There, Daisy had told him, he would find Gertrude Robinson, the Grandmaster of the Blades. He was to give her the Amulet of Kings and then … he wasn’t sure.

The forest around him grew denser, and he found his mind wandering as he walked. What would this lost son of the Emperor be like, he wondered? Did he know of his ancestry? Would he be a mage, clad in flowing robes, or a knight in polished, dragon-embossed armor? A mixture of the two, maybe - a spellsword, like Jon? Would he look like his father? He shook the thoughts from his head. No use wondering about things he’d never know, really.

Instead, his thoughts drifted to the Blades he met in the sewers. Georgina, Daisy, and Captain Melanie - Melanie and Georgina were both injured, leaving Daisy as the only non-incapacitated member. Would they make it through the sewers alright? After that, where would they go?

What had it meant for Jon, now that he was caught up in this?

“Except I’m _not,_ ” Jon said to the open air as he dodged a low-hanging branch. “I’m not caught up in this. All I have to do is deliver the Amulet to this Gertrude, and then go on with my life and pretend none of this ever happened.”

That was his plan, at least, when he finally arrived on the steps of Weynon Priory, feet aching and bones protesting the long journey after so long spent cramped in a cell. It was small, but well-supplied. He could see the gates of Chorrol from the steps, and he had caught a glimpse of a stable in the back. The priory itself was nestled in the woods, right on the edge of the Great Forest, birds chirping serenely as bright green leaves waved to-and-fro. He sighed, leaning against the door to the priory for a moment, feeling the exhaustion creeping up on him -- _the Emperor dying in his arms, the Amulet of Kings thrust into his hands_ \-- before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

He closed the door behind him, taking in the small priory. A monk sat at a desk, eyes scanning over a book illuminated by lantern-light and the dying rays of the sun filtering in the windows. Stairs led up to the wings of the priory. The tantalizing smell of food wafted through the air, and combined with the coziness of the priory … well, Jon wouldn’t be exaggerating if he said he could just collapse on the spot and be happy.

The thought was stolen from him when a woman, dressed in a black priest’s robe, descended the stairs. Her skin was tanned, her dark brown hair left down. She paused as she noticed Jon, raising a brow -- _Gods, I must make for a strange sight,_ he thought.

He gave her his best approximation of a smile. It felt … foreign on his face, coming off as more of a grimace. “This, this is Weynon Priory, yes?”

“Yes,” the woman said, her voice dripping with suspicion. “I’m Prior Harvey. Can I help you?”

“I’ve been told to, uh, to speak with … Sister Gertrude?”

Prior Harvey clicked her tongue, understanding coloring her features. “She’s upstairs, writing. Take the flight up and to the right.”

“Thank you,” Jon said, the smile coming just a bit more naturally as he made his way past her and up the stairs. There weren’t any walls shielding the upper levels from the view of the wing opposite of it, and Jon could clearly see the beds on the left side of the upper floor. The right wing had desks pushed to the wall, a large cabinet near the top of the stairs, and at the opposite end, he could see a woman in a monk’s robe scribbling away in a large tome. Her hair was grey, her features wrinkled. There was a harshness about her, and Jon couldn’t help the sudden burst of apprehension upon approaching the woman.

As soon as he was within a few feet of her desk, she sighed, putting down her quill and rubbing the bridge of her nose. Then, she looked up at him, pale green eyes sharp and cruel. “I’m Sister Gertrude. _What_ do you want?”

“The, uh, the Emperor told me to find you,” Jon explained. “He gave me the Amulet of Kings.”

“ _What?!_ Do you know something of his death?!” She shot up, her chair pushed backwards, voice suddenly cold. “Let me see the Amulet!”

Jon reached down into the pouch by his waist, untying it from its place and handing it to her. She opened the pouch, pulling out the large gem, eyes widening before she schooled her expression into something calm. “Tell me what happened,” she said simply, and Jon did.

Gertrude was attentive, even as she sat back down and gestured for Jon to do the same. He started from the beginning -- detailing his meeting with the Emperor and his Blades, how Captain Melanie and Georgina were injured, how the Emperor gave him the amulet and told him to find his last son and close shut the jaws of Oblivion. How Daisy sent him here.

When he was finished, Gertrude took one long, critical look at him, before sighing and shaking her head. “As strange as your story is, I believe you. Only the strange fate of Raymond Septim could bring a prisoner to me, carrying the Amulet of Kings.”

Jon shifted in his seat, uncomfortable under her gaze. “What did he mean, ‘close shut the jaws of Oblivion’...?”

“His words are unclear to me, as well,” she admitted, furrowing her brows. “He seemed to perceive some threat from the demonic realm of Oblivion. Usually, the mortal world is protected via magical barriers, fueled by the Dragonfires --”

“Which are lit by a dragon-blooded Emperor wearing the Amulet of Kings,” Jon finished, the meaning of them dawning on him. “Without an Emperor, the Dragonfires will be dark. He mentioned the Prince of Destruction -- Mehrunes Dagon. Is he planning an attack?”

Gertrude regarded him again. “Perhaps. You told me he said to find his son.”

“Yes,” Jon said.

“I am one of the very few who know of his existence. Many years ago, when I served as Captain of the Blades, Raymond called me into his private chambers. There, a baby lay sleeping in a basket. He told me to deliver it somewhere safe, but wouldn’t tell me anything more about it -- but I knew it was his child. He asked me about its progress from time to time, and I was made to watch over him as he grew. It seems this illegitimate son is now the crown prince to the Septim throne.” Gertrude closed her eyes for a moment, weariness shadowing her features. “His name is Martin Blackwood. He is a bard in the city of Kvatch, south of here. He does not know of his father. You must go there at once, find Martin, and bring him to me.” She sounded almost _worried_ , before her voice steeled again. “If Dagon’s servants are aware of his existence, as seems likely, he is in terrible danger.”

“The fate of the Empire lays within a bard’s hands,” Jon said, disbelieving. “Julianos preserve us.”

Gertrude stared at him, long and hard. “No. It currently lies with someone far less competent.” Then, almost as an afterthought, with a small, forced smile, she continued, “No pressure.”

“...I -”

“I keep supplies for traveling Blades in the room behind the cabinet,” she powered on, reaching into her pocket and producing a brass key. She pushed it into his hand. “This will unlock the false panel. Take Emma - Prior Harvey’s - horse. Rest, if you must, regain your strength, but leave for Kvatch as soon as you’re able.”

Jon nodded, not quite brave or foolish enough to defy her orders. Gertrude returned to her writing, and Jon took that as his cue to leave. 

The supplies, thankfully, included a well-fitting suit of polished steel armor, though it was still on this side of too large, a twisted alteration staff that could be latched securely to his back, and a warm meal. It also included a much needed comb lended to him by Sister Fiona, the monk - and retired Blade, as she told him - he had seen reading as he first entered the priory. After adjusting the armor to fit better and combing the worst of the knots out of his far-too-long hair, he collapsed on the closest bed for what felt like five minutes, though Prior Harvey told him he had slept through a good part of the evening. Still, Jon felt better than he had in a long while, and was in proper good spirits as he gratefully accepted a satchel filled with bread and cheese from Harvey and well-wishes from Fiona. He left the Priory and made his way to the stables behind it, where three horses were housed.

The first of which was a large bay-colored stallion. It had large, dopey eyes, and it struck Jon as something of an idiotic steed. The second was a handsome, less-imposing thing, with a deep brown coat. It nudged at Jon with its nose as he passed by it, seeking food or attention - or both, maybe. The third, _his_ horse, was named Mary. She was a brown-and-white paint horse, and looked for all intents and purposes as if she wanted to kill Jon for having the audacity to stand beside her, anxiously patting her side.

“I’m, uh, I’m going to get on you now,” Jon said, feeling moronic.

Mary neighed impatiently.

“I’m going to take that as permission.”

It was, Jon discovered moments later as he was laying in a pile of hay, not permission.

“Mary, in case you haven’t heard,” Jon began, groaning as he stood up. That would definitely bruise later. “I am on a very important quest - apparently - to find and save the … Crown prince. Of the Imperial Throne.” Oh, _that_ would definitely cause some sort of crisis later. “But, I can’t save the prince if _you_ don’t cooperate with me.”

Mary stared at him for a long moment, before scraping at the ground with her hoof. _Why in Oblivion should I care?_ she seemed to be asking.

“Because, uh, Mehrunes Dagon is going to … do something.”

Mary was thoroughly unimpressed.

“Damn horses,” Jon mumbled, nose scrunched up. He jumped as he heard a light laugh, and spun to face where the sound was coming from.

There stood a man, large, but gentle-seeming. He wore a wool shirt, an apron tied around his waist. He had a wide grin on his face, and held a red apple in his hand. “Mary’s a right bastard when she wants to be. Here.” The dark-haired man tossed Jon the apple, which he barely caught. “Give her that, and she’ll listen to you. Mostly.”

“Oh, um,” Jon glanced down at the apple he now held. “Thank you, Mister …?”

“Herne. Evan Herne. My wife Naomi and I take care of the horses and sheep.”

Jon gave a small nod. “Thank you, Mister Herne.”

“No problem. Come find me if she gives you any more trouble, yeah?”

“Sure,” Jon said, not intending to do that in the slightest. The man - Evan - left, leaving Jon to deal with the damn thing --

He flinched when Mary’s large teeth bit into the apple, almost taking a few of his fingers with it.

“...There we are,” he cooed in a voice that he hoped was encouraging, but was probably just patronizing. “Will you let me get on, now?”

A few false starts later, in which Mary defied his pleading to just walk _straight forward,_ please, they were finally, _finally_ off to Kvatch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go ! kudos and comments always make my day, feel free to share your thoughts !!


	3. Find the Heir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't look too good in Kvatch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said i'll update on saturdays but I Lied, have an early chapter. this one is unbeta'd and i'm not entirely happy with it but it just. be like that sometimes. any mistakes are entirely my own!

The journey to Kvatch sent Jon back east, following his footsteps back around the web-like roads that circled Imperial City. The air was cool now that the sun had mostly set, though he could still see the soft oranges and pinks of Azura’s domain on the horizon. His thoughts flickered briefly to the Queen of the Night Sky as the moons began their steady ascent into the sky. It was Last Seed, and if Jon wished to, he could look up at the heavens and see the Warrior constellation, raising its axe high. As it happened, though, Jon closed his eyes, focusing the energy of the stars until his skin prickled with warmth. There was no proof that casting under the stars made spells any better or worse, really, and Jon  _ knew _ that the magicka was coming from within him and not the stars themselves, but the habit had been drilled into him by his grandmother. He thought of the warmth on his skin as light, directing the feeling to his hand as he clenched his fingers. He opened his eyes to see a harsh, white light encasing his fist, which he raised into the air and released, feeling the warmth leave him as the light lifted, hovering like a miniature sun a few feet above where he sat on Mary’s back. Mary neighed disapprovingly, as if actually being able to see where she was going somehow upset her.

Jon patted her neck. “Well, excuse  _ me _ for not wanting you to trip, or, or get bitten by an unseen snake, or attacked by an imp, or any number of nasty creatures.”

The horse whinnied.  _ As if I wouldn’t simply buck you off and let them have at you as I escaped. _

“How thoughtful of you,” Jon mumbled, pointedly ignoring the fact that he was imagining a conversation with a horse.

_ Gods above, _ he thought,  _ this is pathetic. _

He went west for some time, casting the Candlelight spell again when needed, nodding to or ignoring the Legionnaire guards patrolling. Finally, the Gold Road came into view, and he steered a reluctant Mary to follow the path west. 

The lush pines and oaks of the Great Forest gave way to the birches and red-leaved bushes of County Skingrad, and by the time dawn broke, Jon and Mary had made their way past the vineyards that the region was famous for. They circled around the city, opting to navigate the farmland around it rather than the foreboding buildings within the walls. Count Oliver Banks was beloved by his people, and well-respected outside of Skingrad, but the city itself was something of a maze.

The county itself was calm, though, and peaceful -- he could see the mountains of the Imperial Reserve to the north. His eyes followed the line southwest until he saw the smallest of the mountains -- that was the one that the city of Kvatch was built on. The moons disappeared on the western horizon, and clouds began to gather, giving blessed shade from the late-summer sun. He ate some of the bread Fiona had given him, though he didn’t clamber down from Mary’s back. He could see the walls of Kvatch, now, and smell something sharp, and acrid.

Mary began to make a fuss as they drew closer, the scent thicker, until she refused to take another step.

Jon sighed. “Mary, look, I know you’re tired, but as soon as we reach Kvatch -”

Without warning, she stood on her hind legs, and Jon fell unceremoniously onto the road with the loud clang of armor. Before he could so much as push himself upwards, Mary had taken off back east, galloping at full speed.

Jon groaned, watching as she bolted, then dropped his head back down. “Sure, go ahead, not like I needed you or anything,” he grumbled, spending a moment just laying on the ground. Was it worth it to get up, he wondered? Was it  _ really _ ? What waited at the end of this path - some clueless poet, not knowing he was the Emperor’s bastard, or -

Jon wrinkled his nose. That  _ smell _ \- it was like the stench of a hastily cast fireball, except stronger, seeming to sink under his armor and clothes. He had forced himself to his feet, brushing off the dirt from his armor, when he placed the scent.

When he was young, he had been interested in all manner of magic. It was an interest he continued into adulthood, though he focused mostly on Destruction, Illusion, and Restoration. Once, when he was twelve, foolhardy and arrogant, he had dabbled into Conjuration. He wasn’t any good at it, really, and he only ever summoned a creature once. He had reached into Oblivion, calling out with a plea for help as one of the older children in his village tormented him. The creature that had answered him had smelled of brimstone and ash.

Jon froze, head snapping up to see Kvatch. Against the pale blues and greys of the cloudy sky, he could see smoke.

_ Oh, _ he thought,  _ this isn’t good. _

It was, as predicted,  _ not good. _ As Jon made his way up the mountain, the smell only grew stronger, leaving his mouth dry and heart hammering in his chest. The mountain itself was barely more than just a slightly large hill, and he could see tents propped up at its crest -- and an Altmer, tall and spindly, racing down hill. His arms were burnt, his hair singed, his eyes wild. He was charging right at Jon, halting a few feet in front of him, chest heaving with panic.

“Run,” the Mer said.

Jon felt his face twist into one of confusion. “I - I’m sorry?”

“Run while you still can,” he said, his voice growing frenzied. “The guard still holds the road, but it’s only - it’s only a matter of time before they’re overwhelmed!”

“Run from  _ what _ ?”

The Mer stared at him, before laughing bitterly. “Gods’ blood. You don’t know.” He turned slightly, panicked eyes glancing back to the camp. He dropped into a shaky, broken whisper. “Daedra overran Kvatch last night. There were glowing portals outside the walls. Gates to  _ Oblivion itself. _ There was a huge - creature,” his voice broke, his chest beginning to heave again. “Something out of a nightmare, climbed over the city walls and blasted  _ fire _ \-- th - they just swarmed around it, killing --” He turned back to Jon. “It’s gone. It’s  _ all gone! _ ”

Jon felt his heart stumble to a stop.  _ He was too late. _ “The whole city can’t be destroyed.”

The Mer laughed at that, just as shattered as his voice. “Go and see for yourself! Kvatch is a smoking ruin! We’re all that’s left, do you understand me?!” He gestured wildly, throwing an arm out to the camp. “ _ Everyone else is DEAD! _ ”

No. No, because if everyone was dead, that meant… Jon couldn’t think like that. Not now. “How - How did you escape, then?”

“It - it was Jude Perry,” the elf said. “Some of the other guards. They - they cut their way out, helped some of us escape … Perry thinks they can hold the road. I don’t - I don’t believe her.”

“Martin,” Jon took the High Elf’s shoulders, steadying him. “Did a man named Martin Blackwood make it out?”

“I knew a bard named Martin, once,” the Mer said. “He’s dead. I’m sure of it. Just like everyone else.”

Jon cursed, let go of the elf, and made his way to the camp. 

Kvatch was a decent-sized city, a little over twenty thousand people living in it. It was off the main trade road, and the smallest of Cyrodiil’s capital cities. Twenty thousand people, each with their own lives.

There were, at most, two hundred people in the survivor’s camp.

Jon closed his eyes, prayed to whatever god might be listening, and made his way into the camp.

Martin Blackwood hadn’t made it out of the city. He had asked  _ everyone _ who was in a state fit enough to be asked. He was in the inn when it collapsed, they said. Others say they saw him running. Others said they saw a body that might’ve been his.

Jon was about ready to give up hope, when --

“Sure, I know Martin,” said a man who introduced himself as Sebestian Skinner. There was a huge, weeping burn on his arm that he was tending to. “Bright lad. Happy. Sorta reminds you of a puppy, right? That Martin?” 

Jon hummed an affirmation, as if he actually knew the bard. Sebastian seemed content with his answer, though, and continued, “Last I saw him, he was leading a group to the Chapel of Akatosh. Sturdy place, made of stone. S’got a great big spire, can’t miss it.”

Jon resisted the urge to dance, or cry, or lay back down in the dirt. Instead, he asked, “How can I get into the city?”

“I reckon you can’t, what with that portal in the way,” Sebestian said.

“There’s a portal still open,” Jon said, more to himself than anything. “Of course there is. Why  _ wouldn’t  _ there be?”

Sebastian nodded sagely, as though Jon had revealed a great truth to him. “Talk to Jude if you need to get in the city. She’ll come up with something, probably.”

“Right. Thank you.”

Sebastian nodded again, and returned to fussing over his burn. Jon took a deep breath, and looked towards the final uphill stretch of the mountain -- towards the gates of Kvatch.

The first thing Jon noticed as he approached was the sky.

He froze as he realized it, glancing upwards as he saw the slow spread of orange-red across the sky, like a sunset stripped of its beauty. Thin black lines were scrawled in the heavens. He forced his eyes back down, flinching when a deafening clap of thunder - was it thunder? Or was it something worse? - sounded.  _ Keep going, _ he told himself,  _ you have to get inside the city. You have to find the son.  _ The smell got worse, brimstone lingering with woodsmoke and burnt meat, and it made Jon nauseous to think about what type of meat, exactly, was being burnt.

The closer he got, the more scorched the ground was, as well. It was cracked, mirroring the lines in the sky, and Jon could feel an intense heat radiating from  _ somewhere -- _

He crested the hill.

_ Oh. _

Oh, Julianos preserve him.

The gate, as it appeared, was easily the height of four men. It was made of a black stone, shaped like an archway with a flat top, jagged edges jutting out on its side. Inside the gate itself was a swirling, almost mesmerizing pattern of magefire, shimmering so that he couldn’t see through to the other side of the gate. It was situated in front of Kvatch’s gate, and Jon could see blackened earth where other gates had once stood. The largest patch of scorched ground was where he was standing -- it completely encircled the area, rendering the ground meters around him to little more than charred ash.

There was a barricade a few meters away from the Gate, where guards wearing the singed, wolf-embossed armor of Kvatch standing behind shoddily made wooden barriers, clutching damaged weapons. There was one, though, a short half-elven woman -- a Breton like Jon, maybe? -- with close-cropped black hair, who was just  _ grinning _ , her giant broadsword held at the ready. She took in the battlefield, a glint off Jon’s armor catching her eye - she turned to face him, that grin growing wider. She tilted her head. “Here to help?”

“No, actually, I -”

Before he could finish, Daedra began to pour out of the swirling Gate. The woman’s head snapped back to the gate, and she gave a mighty battlecry that startled the other guards into action.

There were five of the things. Four of them were small creatures, all spittle and claw and bone. One was larger, its sickly beige skin wrinkled, its lips drawn back into a snarl - or maybe a grin.  _ Scamps _ , Jon realized. Mean little bastards, but easy enough to kill. The Daedra charged at the guards.

“Steady!” The Breton yelled. “Let them come to us!”

Jon unsheathed his sword, focusing his magicka again -- it always came to him easier in battle, when he didn’t have time to  _ think _ , just  _ act _ . It was a relief in some ways, and terrifying in others. He rolled his shoulders, feeling unnatural frost gather at his fingertips, and let instinct take over.

One of the smaller scamps tossed a fireball at the guards, clicking its pointed teeth in a twisted version of a laugh. Its long ears were pressed against its head, beady eyes wide and full of mirth. It was … lackadaisical, really, uncaring. It was  _ playing _ with them, the way a wolf plays with its meal.

_ All _ of them were.

_ Well, _ Jon thought,  _ we can’t have that, can we? _

The issue, however, was this: Jon was, objectively, a very good destruction mage.  He was also, objectively, shite at aiming.

There was a surprisingly simple solution to this conundrum. Jon ducked under the flashing blades and errant fireballs tossed by the scamps. The larger one, hanging back nearer to the Gate, would be acting as a commander of sorts -- if he could kill it…

The frost began to creep up his hand, onto his arm. Frozen fractals began to appear on the steel of his gauntlet.

He didn’t think. He ran.

He ran, and he  _ ran _ , the heat of the Gate burning his face, and the larger scamp turned its attention to him, baring its teeth gladly, bracing for a blow that never came -

Because Jon grabbed its wrist, and  _ released. _

He yanked his hand back before it was encased in the ice with the damn thing, stumbling backwards and bolting it the few meters to where the guards fought. They had cut down three of the smaller scamps, and the remaining one was injured.

There was a loud  _ POP _ , and the sound of a dozen shards of ice-quickly-turning-gas falling, and the last scamp was killed.

The Breton was grinning at  _ him _ , now, blood smeared on her cheek.

“You know,” Jon said conversationally, as though he wasn’t covered in bits of exploded scamp, “You should really wear a helmet.”

She blinked. Then, as sudden as a clap of what-was-maybe-thunder, she laughed. “Gods above! And here I was, thinking you were some knight in shining armor.  _ You should wear a helmet, _ he says!”

Uneasily, the other guards chortled with her.

Jon paused. “I...  _ am _ a knight, actually.”

“That isn't my point,” the woman said, still laughing. She shook her head, then exhaled sharply with a soft ‘ _ ooh _ ’. “By the Nine, I needed that. Thank you.”

“You’re … welcome? Look, I need to speak with -”

“Jude Perry?” The woman jammed her sword into the ground like a take, then leaned on it casually. She raised a brow. “Speaking.”

“Oh. Well, I need to get into the city.”

“Welcome to the club.”

“You don’t understand -”

“Actually, I do.” She straightened, her expression falling into something angrier before she forced a deep breath. “Look, Mister Hero, I appreciate the help. But until that -- Gate, or whatever in Oblivion it is, is closed, no one’s getting in or out of the city.”

Jon looked at the gate, then to Jude, then to the scorch-marks on the ground. He hummed in thought. “What if I went in the Gate?”

Jude froze for a moment, before a sharp smile made its way to her features again. “You didn’t strike me as the suicidal type.”

“There were other gates, correct? They were closed, presumably from the inside.” Jon glanced to Jude. “It stands to reason that someone from outside could go in and close it.”

“...You realize that if you go in that Gate, there’s no chance you’ll be making it out alive?”

Jon paused.

He could walk away from this. Leave this bastard prince to die, go home to High Rock. Pretend none of this ever happened.

Except … he can’t, not really, can he? Portals to Oblivion couldn’t be achieved. Not  _ stably. _ Not like the one he was staring at now. Unless something fundamental changed -- like the Dragonfires going out, stripping Tamriel of Akatosh’s protection --

And, well, the Gates were opened  _ here, _ weren’t they? It was hardly coincidence that the first of presumably many attacks would be here, where the last of the Septims lived.

Jon took a breath.

Funny. He never really thought of himself as the self-sacrificing type.

He smiled, a tiny, bitter thing. “I suppose I can tell you if it works when I come back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading!


	4. The Siege Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're under attack," Martin whsipered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is unbeta'd, any mistakes are purely my own !

It was safe to say that Martin Blackwood was having a really,  _ really _ bad day.

It had started when he was in the Grey Wolf Inn, performing for meagre tips as usual; tonight was a slow night, the patrons tired after a long day in the late-summer sun and shocked by the news of the emperor’s death; so, he sang soft, gentle songs of longing and loss. “ _ Bless me, o fallen one, forgive me my sins, _ ” he sang, fingers dancing over the strings of his lute, “ _ Come through that quiet light within. Hope has forsaken me, I linger here in shame; grant me my wish, set me free… _ ”

Then, there had been a sudden, deafening noise, louder than anything Martin had heard in his life. The inn fell silent, drunken patrons looking around in confusion or surprise. There was another noise, accompanied by the shifting of the ground. the inn shook, its patrons stumbling.  


Murmurs began to rise, and slowly, Martin put down his lute. He glanced to the door, taking a few steps, intending to poke his head outside and see what the commotion was.

That was when the bells of the chapel began to clang together, frenzied -- normally, they signalled the beginning of a sermon, but this --

“We’re under attack,” Martin whispered. The patrons were standing up now, the beginnings of panic undercutting the atmosphere. Martin glanced at the innkeeper, a man named Sebastian. Sebastian caught his eye, and nodded.

Martin didn’t remember much after that, really. Dully, he recalled guiding the crowd to barricade the door. He remembered it not working.

He remembered running, and the  _ heat _ . He remembered seeing the Chapel, in all its cold, grey glory. He remembered seeing the portals, the bodies, the red sky, and the -- the  _ creature _ , its body as black as obsidian, long and segmented like a demonic, many-legged worm, climbing over the walls _. _

He ran to the chapel, threw open the doors, and screamed out to whoever was alive to listen to follow him until his voice grew hoarse.  There had been a good bit of people who followed him, which was … surprising. There were about thirty of them counting Martin, and together, they barricaded the door against the forces of the Daedra.

The priests weren’t in there, though. Martin knew they wouldn’t be.

He saw their corpses on the steps.

The survivors looked to him, then. He took a shaky breath, asked if anyone had managed to bring food -- only one person had, the baker named Nathan. It wasn’t much, but two loaves of bread combined with the chapel’s (admittedly meagre) storage meant for its priests would have to suffice.

They came up with a priority system. The injured would get first picks, then the elderly and the young (it had broken something in Martin, to see the little girl numbly clutching onto her father’s leg). Then, everyone else would ration the rest. Martin, for his part, took nothing.

They stayed there through the night, prepared to weather the attack as long as needed.

In some ways it was a mercy to not see outside. Martin could  _ smell  _ it, though. And he could hear the screams, begging for mercy at first, and then for death ( _ was there a difference anymore? _ ). He had tried to go and help, stirred into action, stopped only when Old Man Adelard -- the oldest of Kvatch’s guardsmen -- caught his shoulder and just shook his head.

That had been when Martin felt himself shatter. Even still, there was a spark of ... defiance, maybe, or hope, glowing dim as an ember in his chest.  


Hours passed. The screams subsided, though Martin knew it wasn’t because they escaped.

Then -- Then, Jude came, and there was the bloodied stranger at the door, and the bard felt the dull glow of hope turn into a wildfire.

The rest of the guards came with them, speaking in hushed tones to Adelard. The unfamiliar face of the bloodied stranger scanned the crowd, coming to rest on Martin, hunched over on the floor, back pressed against the altar of the church. Then, Adelard turned to the others with a blinding grin, and announced it was safe to leave. The last of the gates had been closed.

It was a bit of a blur after that, too. They lined up, and prepared to leave --

Then, something passed on the stranger’s face as he scanned the line of people. Their voice cracked as they whispered, “Is one of you Martin Blackwood?” 

There was an odd look in their expression, desperate and almost pleading.

Martin swallowed, awkwardly raising his hand. “I - I am.”

The beautiful stranger smiled then, wide and earnest and tired, “Then … then there is hope.”

They said it under their breath, and Martin figured he wasn’t meant to hear it, but before he could ask  _ what they meant _ , they were all shepherded out of the chapel, through the corpses lining the streets, and out of Kvatch’s ruined gate.

The walk to the camp was short, but by the time Martin got there, he was exhausted. He was given a small tent, sharing with a person he didn’t recognize who was fast asleep - he hoped, their breathing was awfully quiet - and he collapsed onto the small blanket that would be serving as his bed for the foreseeable future.

He slept dreamlessly for maybe an hour, when the cheering woke him up.

Groggily, he stood and pushed open the flap to the tent, rubbing his eyes as he made his way into the crowd. There, like a parade, was Captain Jude Perry, and by her side, burnt and bloodied, was Martin’s stranger. Following them were a group of maybe fifty guards, all in varying states of injury. The survivors hailing them were crying, or laughing, or simply watching in awe. Martin watched over their shoulders as his stranger, their face flushed and flustered, was taken to what he assumed was a large healer’s tent.

It wasn’t until dusk fell that he worked up the courage to find them.

There were a few others, mostly guards, being tended to in the tent. The bitter smell of poultices had seeped into the fabric of the tents, though it was better than the sharp scent of blood. A curtain hung near the back, presumably hiding the worst of the injuries from the others. Martin glanced around, looking for his stranger, when a hand clapped on his shoulder and he nearly jumped six feet.

“Sorry.” Jude at least had the mind to look sheepish. “I’m glad to see you.”

Martin glared, but softened almost immediately. “‘S okay. I’m glad you made it out.”

“Yeah,” Jude said, looking at her injured comrades. She didn’t look exactly well-off herself -- a large burn covered the left side of her jaw, continuing downwards to where it disappeared underneath her linen shirt. Her hands were clenching and unclenching at her sides. “Yeah. Me too.”

An uneasy quiet fell over them. Martin was the one to break it. “What … exactly happened?”

“You know,” Jude said with a forced smile, “I was hoping you could tell me. You’re our resident Daedra expert.”

“I - Those Gates. What happened. Everything I know about Daedric magic says that such stable portals shouldn’t be even remotely possible. We’re protected. We’re -  _ supposed _ to be protected. With the Dragonfires gone, we’re open to attack from … whoever,  _ what _ ever sent them here.”

Jude nodded, before she turned her eyes down to stare at the floor. “We drove the last of the Daedra out. We took back the city. We can start to rebuild once the ashes settle. We - Arkay forgive us, but we’re going to be burning the bodies that are unclaimed. There’s too many to give a proper ceremony.”

“Arkay understands,” Martin said, hoping he sounded more sure than he felt.

Jude didn’t look convinced. “Did word break out yet? About Count Delano?”

His face fell. “No. He … didn’t make it, did he?”

The Breton shook her head. “Jon - the one who closed the Gate - was the one to find him. The Daedra overran the castle, stuck a sword in his chest as he slept. They - they gouged out his  _ eyes _ .”

“By the Nine,” Martin whispered, feeling his stomach drop. “How could the gods - how could They let something like this happen?”

Jude smiled, then. It was so small Martin almost missed it. “The Divine Crusader showed up, during the fight to reclaim the Castle.”

Martin laughed, the sound joyless. “Danny Stoker? I don’t know if that’s better or worse. He only shows up when things are - are  _ bad. _ Like, world-endingly bad.”

“Well, maybe - maybe the Crusader can find a way to stop this. If anyone can, it’d be him, right?”

“I - I think so, yeah.”

Martin and Jude both looked up as someone cursed loudly.

“I’m  _ fine _ !" The voice was scathing. "Look, I just need to find someone, alright - No, I  _ know _ it’s burnt, but believe me when I say that finding this man is  _ far _ more important than this -”

Stumbling out from behind the curtain hung in the back came a raggedy, thin man. His hair was long, shot through with grey. His features were angular, pockmarked by circular scars. His skin was a warm brown, and there was a nasty looking burn on his right hand, discoloring the skin around it to a pale pink. His face was set into a scowl, his brows furrowed deeply. Even without the shining gleam of his armor, Martin recognized him -- his stranger. They looked about ready to collapse.

They looked beautiful.

_ Oh, Dibella help me, _ Martin thought,  _ this **really** isn’t the time for that _ .

A dark elf healer, white robes stained with splotches of red, followed after him. “Serjo Jon-”

“Look, I’ll come back after I find --” Jon’s eyes scanned the others laying around him, before finally landing on Jude and Martin. “ ... him.”

Martin glanced to Jude. She shrugged.

The bard sighed and looked to his stranger - Jon, who had taken a few steps toward him - and the healer, who was still pleading with the stranger. Martin plastered a small smile on his face, turning to the Dunmeri mage. He held a spool of gauze and bandage in his hands. “Apologies, muthsera,” Martin said with an easy smile. He gestured to the bandages in the other’s hands. “Allow me…?”

The Dunmer looked to Jon, sighed, and pushed what he held into Martin’s hands. “Good luck,” he grumbled, before turning and disappearing behind the curtain again. He poked his head out a moment later. “Serjo Perry, if you would? I believe I have something for that burn of yours.”

Jude nodded, giving Martin a firm squeeze on his shoulder before following the mage.

An uneasy silence fell, then. Martin could hear labored breathing from the injured and dying, the birds chirping as if nothing was wrong outside, the wind weaving through leaves.

“Martin...?” Jon began.

His voice broke the bard out of his stupor. He shook his head. “Nope. No, there’s time for that later, right now you’re going to sit down and I’m going to bandage that and then I’m going to ask you some questions.”

“I have to tell you something. Something  _ important. _ ”

Martin raised a brow. “Something so important you come into the ruins of Kvatch, ask everyone you see about me, dive head-first into a  _ Gate into literal Oblivion _ , and help to drive back hordes of Daedra from the city.”

Jon nodded quickly. His tone was exasperated when he exclaimed, “Yes!”

Well. Martin wasn’t sure what he expected, but that wasn’t it.

“... Alright,” he said slowly, "Alright, you can tell me."  


Jon opened his mouth.

“ _ But _ , I’m going to fix you up first.”

Jon’s face fell. He sighed and dropped to the floor, sitting cross-legged in a fluid motion. When Martin joined him, he held out his burnt hand.

Martin took his arm gently by the wrist, where the skin wasn’t burnt. Slowly, with practiced precision, he began to wrap Jon’s hand. “What you did,” he said after a moment's silence, “was very brave.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“How can you say it wasn’t --”

“Because,” Jon cut him off, “I didn’t _want_ to do it. I just … did.”

“Why, then? If you didn't want to, _w_ _ hy _ did you save us?”

“I - I had to get to you.”

Martin hummed, not taking his eyes off Jon's hand. “I’m sure that’s not the only reason. If it were, you would’ve stopped once you got us out the Chapel.”

Jon very pointedly did not look at him. “...I had the ability to help. To try and set things right. I- I am not a brave man, but I like to think I’m not a heartless one, either.”

Martin smiled. He felt Jon's gaze drift back to him.  


“...What?” His voice was sharp enough to cut.  


“You just proved my point. That’s what bravery is.”

“Not letting more people die?”

“Running into danger because you can  _ help _ .”

“You,” Jon said, “are a very strange man, Martin Blackwood.”

He shrugged a bit, tying off the first layer of gauze and beginning the next. “You know, I  _ am _ a bit curious as to how you know me. And what you deemed so important that you did  _ this _ to tell me.”

“I didn’t. Well, I did, sort of, but - the Blades sent me.”

“...The Blades? Like, Emperor’s bodyguards, the Blades?”

“No, the underground criminal syndicate.”

Martin blinked.

Jon blinked back. “...That was a joke.”

Martin raised his brows, slow realization on his face. “No, I know, it’s just that they  _ are _ a bit of a criminal thing, aren’t they?”

“I … suppose so?”

“Anyways,” Martin finished off the second layer and let go of Jon’s wrist. The knight pulled back his hand, turning it over and examining the bandaging before pulling it close to his chest, cradling it like something precious. Martin smiled a bit at the sight -- _dammit, Blackwood._ “What’s so important that the  _ Blades _ send you to find me?”

Jon looked up to him, those green eyes boring into Martin.

“You’re in terrible danger,” he said.

Martin raised a brow, and then - then he  _ laughed. _

Jon stared at him as if he grew another limb. “What? What’s so funny?”

“Nothing! Nothing, sorry, it’s just -- I mean, of course I’m in danger! Gods above, you  _ saw _ what happened to Kvatch. Everyone is in danger.”

“The Daedra came here for you, Martin.”

_ That _ shut him up. His hands fell into his lap.

After a moment of silence, Martin spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s - that’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

“... _ Why _ ?”

“What do you -”

“ _ Why _ do you know who I am? Why was Kvatch attacked? The emperor was  _ assassinated _ , what, less than forty-eight hours ago, and now there’s - there’s hordes of Daedra, and they  _ killed _ so many people, and you’re saying that it’s because of me but I’m just a  _ bard _ , Jon,” there was something desperate in his voice, “I’m just a bard! Why do you show up out of - of nowhere and act like I’m some sort of, sort of key to this?!”

“Because you are, Martin!” Jon took one of Martin’s hands in his own unburnt one. “Listen to me. What I’m about to say, it’s very likely you won’t believe me at first, but you need to think of why I would go through all of this just to lie to you.”

Jon’s hand rested on top of his for a moment, before it moved upwards, coming to rest on his shoulder. Martin looked away from him and nodded. “Fine. Tell me.”

“You are the Emperor’s son.”

Martin flinched as though he had been struck. Jon’s hand fell from his shoulder.

“...Oh,” he finally managed. All other words died in his throat.

“You … believe me?”

“I - I don’t know why, but - I … Gods’ blood, I think I do.”

“I, I understand this is … a lot.” Jon’s tone was one of a man who wanted to be comforting, but had no idea how. “But - but there’s a  _ plan. _ You and I, we’re … part of it.”

“...What do we do now? ‘Spose I am the emperor’s son. I - that means --”

“You’re the last heir to the Ruby Throne. Once you’re crowned, you can light the Dragonfires …”

“And stop something like this from happening again,” Martin finished.

Jon nodded, and pushed himself upwards. Martin gladly took the hand he offered to help him up. “Come with me to Weynon Priory,” Jon said. “We can figure it out from there.”

Martin looked at the people lying listlessly around them, caught up in their agony, their suffering, and he knew - he knew that he could help them, now.

He wasn’t a brave man. But damn him if he wouldn’t at least  _ try. _

“...Fine,” he said, the word hanging in the air like a suspended note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jude and martin can be friends. as a treat
> 
> oHHH boy it's been a while. i'm so so sorry for the disappearance !! school's started back so my uploading will be a bit more ... sporadic? and, depending on how much motivation i can work up for this fic, i might write a few drabbles set in this universe if i'm not working on the fic itself. thank you so much for you patience !!

**Author's Note:**

> hooo boy i hope y'all ready for a ride.
> 
> as it stands, i'm planning for this fic to have around eighteen to twenty chapters, two of which are already written. the first chapter, which i'll release tomorrow, stands at about 2.5k words. after the tomorrow, i'll update the fic on saturdays !!
> 
> i hope you enjoy !!


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